


Blood Like Wine

by Grundy



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Post-Movie, Ransom is still very much in trouble with the law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Much like wine, blood also leaves something like a hangover and cleanup work to be done after.
Relationships: Linda Drysdale & Harlan Thrombey, Linda Drysdale & Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 28
Kudos: 96
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Blood Like Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3pipeproblem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3pipeproblem/gifts).



Linda Thrombey took a long drag on her cigarette.

Smoke ‘em while you got ‘em. She was quitting when she finished this pack. Not going to waste any more on them. She intended to live at least as long as Nana. Best revenge and all that.

She’d spent too damn much money (and time) in lawyers’ offices lately. Between her ex-husband and her son, it had been unavoidable. Ridiculously, it was her son who said nothing about the smoking, while her ex had needled her about it incessantly.

The divorce had gone quickly, despite Richard’s half-hearted attempts to be difficult. There wasn’t really much he could do. The pre-nup was ironclad. Had been designed to be, and he’d known it. (He’d known it when he chose to step out on her, too. No accounting for stupidity.) Richard never did figure out when it was time to shut up and take a loss.

She might have had a helping hand from Dad to get started, but her business was  _ hers _ . She grew the company, she made the decisions, she called the shots. She’d paid Dad back before Ransom was out of diapers. She knew damn well when it was time to write a bad asset off.

Richard had been a no-brainer.

Ransom might still be salvageable. She hoped he was, at least. She’s his mother. She didn’t want to believe he was as bad as the police (or the papers) claimed.

Before you can value a property, you have to have the full picture.

That was this afternoon’s business.

She’d already had it out with the lawyer about this.

“Attorney-client privilege does not extend to the mother of the client when the client is not a minor, Linda!”

“Shove it, Michael. I’m the one writing the check. If you’re worth what I’m paying you, you should be able to make the case it’s covered by attorney-client privilege. Not that it should matter- you’re not going to use me as a character witness, and the prosecutor isn’t about to call me to testify against my son.”

Not if she wanted her political career to continue, at least. Dad had been a generous donor over the years – it helped to have the county prosecutor inclined to take your calls or meet for lunch on a Saturday when you needed to pick someone’s brain about how realistic a plot point might be or how difficult a particular clue would be to uncover and correctly interpret.

Linda had continued the tradition of giving generously. But traditions could be changed, as could beneficiaries. They’ve all had a sharp lesson on that subject recently.

Besides, she’d be the most hostile witness imaginable. She had refused to shit-talk her baby brother to the police. What did they imagine she would do when it came to her  _ son _ ?

The whole thing still didn’t feel right.

Part of it felt like Dad. But he wouldn’t have left such a mess. He’d been talking to her over the last few years about his wishes. Dad had wanted his life to go like his books – things wrapped up nicely. No loose ends.

The will had thrown her. He hadn’t said a word about it. She’ll admit she’d reacted badly. She didn’t particularly need or want Dad’s money at this point. She had her own. She’d wanted the house. There were so many memories there.  _ That _ she’d wanted to hang onto. Both her parents had spent their last years there.

Nana was the only Thrombey who still had access to the house. (Unless you counted the dogs. Maybe it was wrong, but Linda did.) Still lived there, in fact.

Linda was working hard on mending bridges with Marta. Not directly, of course. Their communications ran through lawyers, and would at least until Ransom’s trial concluded. But Marta had indicated that if things remained cordial after the trial – which was an if, because God only knew how that would play out – Linda would be welcome to visit her grandmother. Marta was unwilling to have any of Ransom’s family at the house before State v. Drysdale, not even Meg.

Linda might not like it, but she understood it. Actions had consequences, and demanding to know if Marta had been ‘boinking’ Dad was one that was bound to have stuck in the poor kid’s mind.

Then there were Ransom’s actions...

One count of first-degree murder, two counts of attempted murder, assault with a dangerous weapon, destruction of evidence, burning of a public building, concealing a felony…the list of charges against Ransom was not short. The potential jail time added up to multiple lifetimes. And being Ransom, of course he was refusing to consider a plea.

Which was why Linda was in the lawyer’s office today. She was going to review the evidence and make sure her son wasn’t setting himself up for another loss. She was significantly less willing to trust in his ability to charm jurors than he was.

She stubbed the cigarette out – eight – and went inside.

Ransom was waiting for her. For a pleasant change, he didn’t start with any complaints about the ankle monitor he had to wear as one of the non-monetary conditions of his bail. Maybe reality was finally starting to sink in. He was damn lucky not to be in the county lockup until the trial – which could easily still be a year or more away.

That Ransom wasn’t in jail was a combination of the Thrombey name and pull in local politics, him surrendering his passport and agreeing to have his financial accounts monitored for signs of a flight attempt, and the county warden frankly not wanting the headache of ensuring the security of a trust fund brat with family connections and hoping he could just dump that lovely little problem on the state after the inevitable conviction.

“Mom.”

“Ransom.”

“For the record, I advise against this.”

They both looked at the hapless attorney in annoyance. Michael Baumgarten might be one of the best in Boston, but that didn’t change that his opinion was wholly unwanted by either of his clients in this particular instance.

“I don’t see why you want to do this,” Ransom complained. “I’m old enough to be in charge of my own defense.”

“You’ve had quite the string of bad decisions since the night of Dad’s party,” Linda said briskly. “I’m making sure you’re not about to add to the collection.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your mother, and it’s what parents do.”

“Odd, I haven’t seen my father trying to inject himself into the legal process. He was almost as quick to leave me to ‘take my punishment like a man’ as he was to tell me being disinherited would be good for me.”

Linda sighed.

In point of fact, Richard had been doing what he could to help their son. But as he so often did when confronted with Ransom acting out, he’d eventually thrown up his hands and declared that maybe the boy needed a good hard dose of reality.

She could also see where Dad had been going with the changed will – wanting them all to build something for themselves. And, of course, cutting the dead wood. Neither part had worked out the way he’d intended.

She gestured peremptorily to the lawyer, who sighed as he handed over the filebox.

“Mrs. Drys-”

“Ms. Thrombey,” she corrected, her tone steel.

She ignored the face Ransom made at the correction as she removed the first set of papers. It was Benoit Blanc’s statement, which she suspected Baumgarten had put in front because it would be the most succinct way to get her up to speed on all the parts Ransom had left out.

“Finally got rid of him? Congratulations,” Ransom said with impressive false sincerity.

“Richard made his choices. They had consequences,” Linda snorted, not taking her eyes off the papers in front of her.

She paged through quickly to gauge how long the document was before she began to read.

“You should ask him how Jacinta is doing the next time you see him.”

“And when do you think that will be?” Ransom demanded. “Before or after my appeal?”

She pushed her reading glasses down slightly to look closer at him.

“Worried?”

He laughed.

“You haven’t read very far yet, have you?”

She returned to the statement. She only made it midway through before swearing.

“Dammit, Ransom!”

He had his usual smirk on his face, but she was his mother. There was genuine worry in his eyes. Maybe even a spark of fear. Did it occur to him that this time he might finally have gone too far, that even his trust fund, old New England name, family connections, and charm might not save him? Or was it more personal – had he belatedly considered that killing Dad might be a step too far, even for his indulgent mother?

“Why?” she demanded.

Ransom looked surprised that anyone had asked.

“The money, of course,” he replied.

She wasn’t having that. Not for one second. Thanks to his bail conditions, she knew how much was still in his trust.

“Bullshit. If you cared that much about the money, you’d have married the girl instead of trying to frame her. You’d even have gotten to gloat at Walt and Joni about it – you would have had everything, and they’d have been left with nothing. Not a single red dime.”

Privately, she suspected Marta would have insisted on doing something for Meg, but Jacob would definitely have been out in the cold after all his digs over the past few years about anchor babies and dirty Mexicans, and Walt and Donna persona non grata. Particularly after Walt had been so clumsy as to threaten Marta’s mother.

Ransom blinked.

It took everything Linda had not to swear again, both at the notion that Ransom had missed something so completely obvious as well as how ridiculous his choices had been.

She went back to reading. As she did, a lot of things began to make sense.

It  _ had _ been one of Dad’s games – but Ransom had thrown him for a loop by trying to change the rules. Dad had been forced to improvise. In the end, he’d trusted Marta to get it right. He’d obviously been confident she could outplay Ransom.

And yet… Dad had known the money was important to Ransom, and the house was important to Linda – and that rare as it was for him to admit to it, Linda was important to Ransom. Was handing it all to Marta meant to have been a hidden message? Or had Dad intended to say more but Ransom’s actions had cut the conversation short?

It was several minutes before Linda could even look at her son.

The more she read, the more she appreciated just how badly Ransom had mishandled things. Had he actually done what he initially told Marta he was doing – help her keep the money in exchange for his cut – they wouldn’t be here. At that point, thanks to Marta, no murder had actually been committed. Ransom would still have had to live with the knowledge that Dad had chosen to kill himself rather than let Ransom win, but that would have been the end of it. The blood toxicology report would have put both Ransom and Marta in the clear. The police would never have seen the attempted murder.

Without proof, Marta would never have believed Ransom would try to kill his grandfather, much less that he’d use  _ her _ to do it. Hell, if he’d gotten her through the whole mess, she probably even would have been grateful.

Ransom could easily have explained away Fran seeing him as just wanting to retrieve something sentimental from Dad’s office, and trying to avoid picking a fight with anyone else in the family about it. Marta would have believed it. Hell, Linda would have believed it. Any doubts Fran might have had would have had to take a backseat to Dad’s daughter and his heir.

But Ransom hadn’t known when to quit.

“Why?” she demanded.

“It’s all right there, Mom,” he snapped. “Benny Blanc wrote it all down. Trooper Fanboy recorded it. Hell, Marta even said it more than once! Because I’m an asshole!”

She ignored the sarcasm. His name might be Drysdale, but her son is so much like her father it’s not even funny. She might have had to allow her dad to deflect her, but she’s the parent here. She also didn’t miss that while everyone else got sarcastic nicknames, Marta was  _ Marta _ . She always had been, right from the beginning. (Unlike any other employee of Dad’s, Marta had never been made or even asked to call him Hugh.)

“ _Why_ , Ransom?”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“I wanted to win,” he ground out. “I wanted to prove to Granddad that I was smarter than he thought, that I was like  _ him _ , not just some hanger-on like Walt and Joni.”

“Why drag Marta into it?” Linda pressed.

Marta being nice, conscientious, and unobjectionable was one of the few things the entire family agreed on. (Well, except Dad, who had obviously thought her considerably more.)

“He picked her instead of me,” Ransom said slowly. “Why? He wasn’t sleeping with her, I know that much. So why? Because she’s nice? Because she listens? Because she’s pretty? Because she beat him at Go more than I did? That’s a stupid reason to leave anyone a seventy million dollar inheritance!”

Linda might privately agree the last one was a stupid reason, but it seemed to be what had gotten under Ransom’s skin. As for the rest, she had to bite her tongue on pointing out that most heterosexual young men would consider those grounds to  _ talk _ to the girl, not try to get her charged with manslaughter.

“So your solution was to try to kill Dad and frame Marta, kill Fran, try to kill Marta…how did you think all this was going to end? This isn’t one of Dad’s books, Ransom!”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Ransom laughed, but without any real humor. “Bastard’s probably looking down on us right now irritated that I was so much sloppier than his killers. Not able to tell the difference between a real knife and a prop. Although he did think the switched medications was a marvelous method of murder.”

He held something out.

_ Dad’s notebook _ .  _ Of course. _

He always had one on him, because he never knew when inspiration might strike, or when he’d come across a little detail that was just begging to be written into a story. Linda had thought it odd that one hadn’t turned up in his possessions at the morgue or somewhere obvious in his office.

And there it was. Written down, in his own hand. While poor Marta had been frantic to save his life, he’d been jotting down the details of what Ransom had tried to maneuver her into doing, along with exactly what it would have resulted in.

And one more thing - the last thing Harlan Thrombey had ever written.

_ She’ll win this too. _

She didn’t know if Dad had realized that Ransom had been involved. It was possible. Those two had always had an uncanny ability to get in each other’s heads – it was why they were able to have such dramatic blowups so regularly. But would Dad have believed his favorite grandchild would kill him?

Either way, he’d clearly expected the police would never see it. He must have placed it somewhere on his desk to make it look like it had nothing to do with his death. The police hadn’t touched anything that hadn’t obviously had something to do with that night – they had at one point asked her if she could take a look at the room and tell them if anything other than the couch and the Go board was obviously out of place. (Fran had been too shaken to go back up there.)

Ransom must have grabbed it when he went back for Marta’s bag.

She’d never laid a hand on her only child in anger, but it was awfully tempting at the moment.

“So,” Ransom said thoughtfully. “What now?”

“What now?” she repeated.

“If I might interject,” the lawyer offered. “Given how strong the evidence against Mr. Drysdale is, I would suggest a plea.”

Linda held a hand up to forestall the automatic protest from Ransom.

“Go on, Michael.”

“It’s highly unlikely he will be found not guilty of the most serious charges by a jury. There is not only the confession, there’s the blatant attempt on Miss Cabrera under the very nose of the police. By entering a plea, Mr. Drysdale may be viewed as accepting responsibility, not to mention sparing the state the time and expense of prosecuting – all of which will have a bearing on sentencing. With a plea, he  _ might _ be a free man again before he’s 70.”

“I expect some show of remorse would also be helpful,” Linda said drily.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” the long-suffering lawyer replied.

“I’m not sorry,” Ransom said flatly.

“Well  _ get _ sorry!” Linda snapped. “You’re the one who told me you learned so much as Dad’s research assistant. How do you see your life in prison going?”

The lawyer sighed.

“We’ll work on it.”

Yes, they would. 

The work could start right after Linda had cigarette number seven.


End file.
